


heart made of glass, my mind of stone

by bountifulsilences



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Character Study, Crying, Graphic Description, Heavy Angst, Hopeful Ending, Hurt Steve Rogers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Protective Bucky Barnes, Sharing a Bed, Unresolved Emotional Tension, a bit of cute fluff, this totally disregards infinity war, youre welcome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-23
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-08-06 13:28:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16388594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bountifulsilences/pseuds/bountifulsilences
Summary: For the misery to pass, it had to be endured and Steve knew that better than anyone.The bullet lodged in his thigh grating his bone provokingly wasn’t the worst of his worries, he knew how to handle metal in flesh, even if it tore him in half and hastily stitched him together. The blaze on his chest on the other hand, that was uncharted terrain and he didn’t know how to ride it.Regardless, he’d deal with it. He always did.Or, the one where Steve is badly injured post-mission and is struggling to patch himself up. Turns out he doesn't have to, Bucky will, just like the good ol' times.





	heart made of glass, my mind of stone

**Author's Note:**

> I will stop hurting steve I promise,,, just not now 
> 
> this was inspired by: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1HWcr2AyoKc definitely worth a listen!!
> 
> I suck at editing so oops but I hope you enjoy this nonetheless!!

Astounded and devastated, Steve stared at the reflection of a deteriorating man. Scrutinised the dishevelled, swept hair that was falling from the roots and the nasty wound that cut through his eyebrow and ran up to his retreating hairline.

His outer appearance was a physical manifestation of all the dangers and abuse he had encountered over the years, finally catching up to the fleeing soldier.

The bullet lodged in his thigh grating his bone provokingly wasn’t the worst of his worries, it hurt like chalk scraping a board and distressed his ear, devastating and inescapable but familiar. He knew how to handle metal in flesh, even if it tore him in half and hastily stitched him together. The blaze on his chest on the other hand, that was uncharted terrain and he didn’t know how to ride it.

Regardless, he’d deal with it. He always did.

Home.

His therapist oftentimes told him that the 21st century was his home now.

But Steve never believed him, wouldn’t ingest the lie by gaping his mouth, unclenching his teeth and readily drinking the fabricated truth. His lips remained sealed in a tight smile and eyes cautiously alert, proposing a truce to the seemingly trustworthy professional however maintaining a distance, refusing to elaborate on a single word uttered from his mouth.

Rightfully so, in the end it had saved his life. The paranoia which contracted his thoughts when they ventured into unfamiliar territories- the thoughts which reminded him he couldn’t trust anyone until they had revealed themselves to him, they protected him from the parasite which had been killing S.H.I.E.L.D and continued to do so.

A time where not even the ground he once walked remained, how could he accept it as home? It housed him, just as the motel room he was paying for was going to, but that was all. The dusty room, filthy as the cheap prices promised, would only shelter him from the weather outside not the dangers of the world. There was no sentiment, no memories, no brief feeling of safety- it reeked of peril and he walked into it.

Destroying the Hydra base was a success (despite the carelessness that injured his abdomen) and nothing remained. Not the lifelong work, not the millions spent on the machinery, and not a single soul that tried to intercept him. The crimson trail that sluggishly grew with every death formulated a map to him with every footstep, but it never allured the one he yearned for.

His eyes, the ones he examined in the pernicious mirror, red rimmed and exhausted, swore that they saw him. Exclaimed that just before the bomb detonated, high above in the metal corridors was a familiar face with a sniper. Lifeless but real. He was real. He was _there_.

No.

He wasn’t.

He sighed, a watery exhalation that was a combination of the pain and suffering from everything. Shying away from the deteriorating reflection, feigning ignorance to his own self, he paused at the foot of the bed, an arm length away from the medical resources. All the equipment he could possibly need were in a plastic bag, illuminated by the weak glow radiating from the moon visible in the window.

He had to get the bullet out before he could address the rest of himself, it would prolong the worst pain he had ever had in his life but in the name of practicality, he had to. Decisively, he apprehended the bag on the bed, groaning as he creased his abdomen slightly and his vision blanked so he could see nothing.

Waiting for it to return, he stood upright trying to regulate his breathing and calm his rapid heart. Nothing would happen. He was fine. His vision would return momentarily, and he was panicking for no reason. Why was he acting so dramatic?

Eventually, after trying all the exercises he could think of and muffling the grunts of pain, he could see once more. _See? Totally fine. Nothing is wrong_. Painting feverishly, he ambled to the other door present in the room which no doubt lead to the bathroom.

Shutting the door behind him, he blindly tapped the wall and found a string, pulling it to beckon light into the enclosed area. The window was opaque, camouflaging him from the outside but at the cost that he couldn’t see it either. He didn’t care enough to give it a second thought, the sound of rain trickling inside was comforting and he knew-

He knew to tackle the injuries he needed plenty of it, something had to give.

Leaning against the sink, he dumped the bag inside and rummaged through it to find the supplies he needed: scalpel, tweezers, bandages, tape, needle and thread. Gently shrugging off his jacket, he wheezed at the pain the stretch induced and dropped the blood-stained attire in to the sink with the bag.

Without a barrier to contain it, the stench of burnt flesh swarmed the room and tainted the atmosphere the rain was creating. The smell of blazed meat was coming from him. Just barely, he contained the vomit that threatened to rise.

Pushing the toilet lid, it descended onto the seat and he halted. Sitting down would sting, hurt would sear through his lower half excruciatingly and encompass him for a couple of seconds. Was he prepared enough to endure it? His entire life passed in a similar fashion, almost dying multiple times before he even became Captain America.

The process became familiar, but the pain never did. He knew the procedure to save him from an asthma attack, but the agony was different each time, and every time it ensured utmost suffering. He really didn’t want to pull the bullet out.

Sighing, he closed his eyes and waited a moment, repeating to himself: he’d deal with it. He’d survive.

He obtained horrendous injuries during the war- they all did. Handling bombs, rifles, snipers, knifes and every weapon they could get their hands on bred the perfect circumstance for mistakes. They were lucky that none were life threatening, though Falsworth had an extremely close call but the fact was he did it. All of them did, in fact.

They soldiered through the pain, concealing the distress and torment storming inside and moved on. A battlefield was no place to die; mentally, Steve felt as though he had. The team lost parts of themselves that he never had the opportunity to discover they reconnected with. Wars take, and take, and take.

He knew. He’d been in many of them.

Opening his eyes, exhale releasing some of the pent trepidation he was feeling, he fingered the side of his suit to locate the zip and slowly tugged on it, knowing that underneath was nothing but tarnished skin that would eventually heal to paint the marred flesh with nothing (as well as an undershirt and underwear). A clean slate.

He grit his teeth, partially from pain and some from anger that was tormenting the passages of his mind. Enhanced healing was part of the deal, no evidence would remain of the battle, he knew this. But he needed evidence. Something to remind him that it happened. He wasn’t losing the plot over nothing.

Shaking the thoughts out of his head, knowing that they’d only irritate him more, he finished peeling the suit from his body so he was left in nothing but his underwear and tossed it onto the floor, letting it pollute the ground on which he walked, not the skin in which he lived.

Sitting on the toilet, he grabbed the tweezers he had left in the sink and breathed deeply, bracing himself for the inevitable agony. He’d be fine. He could do it. He could deal with it.

He couldn’t- he was so, so, so wrong. Just because he lived with pain didn’t mean it got easier. Clenching his teeth and nearly screaming, he touched the frayed nerves in the hole and scrimmaged until he could find the bullet. Once the mental clinked with metal, he exhaled a loud sigh and exclaimed “fuck!” unable to hold it in anymore.

It hurt- it hurt so bad and he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t do it. He couldn-

No. He could. He could. Get it together Rogers, he demanded. Get the bullet out.

Twisting and turning the metal, he let out a tearless sob and gritted his teeth, knowing if he stopped now he wouldn’t be able to get it out. Cursing some more, he managed to capture the bullet in between the metal hands and shouting some more, he closed his eyes and pulled and pulled until it was out, leaving behind searing fire as the wound ignited.

Throwing the bullet to the side, he breathed deeply, head banging on the wall and reopening the cut on his eyebrow, blood dripping. He couldn’t do it again. He didn’t have the strength to endure that once more. Burn and hole be _damned_ he couldn’t do it. Things were not okay.

Angry, rage painting his eyes red, he pushed himself onto his legs and hobbled out of the room, pissed at not only the situation but himself. Why was he so incompetent? Tending to injuries weren’t alien to him, that year alone he had patched himself up multiple times, so why was this any different?

Entering the bedroom, he retreated near the door, scoffing at himself. He couldn’t leave, who was he kidding? He was destined to stay in that room until the morning at the earliest and he had to sort himself out before then. Sam and Natasha may check up on him despite his vehement disguised pleas for them not to.

Looking at his body, wearing nothing but his underwear and shirt, coated in blood he waited for himself to move. Initiate action to better the situation. Nothing happened.

“You don’t want to work? Fine, don’t. I don’t care anymore. Fucking-” Steve paused, breathing heavily.

He needed to calm down, explosive anger would only aggravate his injuries and they needed utmost care at the time. He could do it, he could manage the extenuating circumstance and come out the other end. He was fine. He was okay.

“You never did know how to look after yourself,” a gravelly voice commented from behind him, heavy.

Steve closed his eyes, mind supplying, Bucky. _Why_. Why now?

“Guess some things don’t change,” voice strained as a sudden wave of embarrassment submerged him. Clean yourself up Rogers, he demanded. Don’t let him see you.

“No,” Bucky replied, voice soft. “I guess they don’t.”

Clearing his throat, he stood tall even though the pain was excruciating, and he wanted nothing more than for it to end- for the agony to cease- but that wasn’t possible. For the misery to pass, it had to be endured and Steve knew that better than anyone. Just got to get there, things will be okay soon, he willed himself to believe.

Limping in the direction of the bathroom again, one arm supporting his waist so that he didn’t fall over, the other was draped at his side, unoccupied so if he were to fall he could catch himself. Nobody would catch him if he did, just how he didn’t catch anyone when they did. The universe always collected its debts.

“Where are you going?” Bucky questioned, Bucky whose eyes he couldn’t meet nor, could he face. That very one.

“Just going to finish patching myself up in the bathroom,” he explained. On an afterthought, he continued, “I won’t be long, you can wait here if you want.”

_Please do. Please stay._

Bucky didn’t respond, and Steve didn’t expect him too. Maybe he’d listen to the desperation which seeped from his tone or maybe he’d claim ignorance and flee the moment the bathroom door closed door. Whatever it was, Steve wasn’t prepared for the outcome either way.

Apparently there had been a third option he could never had anticipated: Bucky following him inside.

When he entered the room, blood all over the place and discarded clothing littering the floor, he felt the familiar ire rise. The rage which expelled him from the area in the first place. Shaking his head, he told himself to hold it in just as long as Bucky was here; one he inevitably left, he could implode. Trash the place if it helped.

It wouldn’t. No analgesic worked on his enhanced body. The serum ensured it.

He sighed quietly to himself and turned to close the door, dealing with his wounds in private, but startled when Bucky walked around him and stood beside his scattered attire, inspecting the temporary workspace. Steve’s breath caught in his throat. He looked...good.

He had evidently gained some weight, cheeks and body fuller than they had ever been. Hair lusciously long, it reached his shoulders where he wore a padded stealth suit in all black, accompanied with boots similar to the ones Steve possessed. Healthy, that’s how he looked.

“Bucky,” Steve started, about to oppose but said no more, the words too heavy to trickle from his mouth.

“Sit down,” he instructed, “tell me what you did and what’s left.”

Dumbly, Steve complied, dropping his body like a sack of potatoes onto the toilet seat stained with his blood. He would argue, he’d say no and do it himself if it was anyone else, but Bucky was always his weak spot. Back when his fights consisted of alleys and everyday bullies they’d find their way to the bathroom and Bucky would patch him up.

To obtain some serenity he had lost in the process, he’d let himself be looked after.

“I got the bullet out.”

Bucky nodded. In the sink were all the equipment he had to use but couldn’t find the strength to operate on himself. How funny it was that he could fuss over Natasha and Sam incessantly, but the moment he had to tend his wounds the will would dissipate and he’d suffer relentlessly. Healing was always so painful- so, so painful.

Of course, he would be, after all, he bought it upon himself.

Stoic, Bucky sterilized the skin, touch so gentle despite everything, and then passed the thread through the needle. With utmost precision and care (care that Steve didn’t deserve) he began to stitch him back together. Hands steady and consistent.

Steve looked away and breathed deeply, clenching his jaw and grinding his teeth to prevent the scream locked in his throat from escaping. It hurt so much- so Goddamn much- _fuck_. Fingers coiling into a fist, he squeezed desperately and inhaled sharply, extremely loud in the silent atmosphere.

“Breathe Steve,” Bucky coaxed, after what felt like eternity passed with his breath caught in his throat. “It’s almost done now. You got this pal, just a bit more.”

Blowing out a harsh breath, he nodded and replied, “I can see that.”

A smile formed on the familiar face. “In incredible pain but you can still be a smart ass. Typical.”

Unable to conjure a reply, words too fumbled and mind scrambled, he kept his mouth closed and let Bucky do what he had to, waiting out the process. Surely, he wouldn’t mind. It wasn’t as though Steve was able to be having a conversation. Right?

True to his word, it was over not long after and Bucky caught him when the adrenaline keeping him up vanished and he fell forward, plummeting onto him. Panting, Steve held in the groan and just rested, relishing the feeling of Bucky holding him- caressing his back soothingly- not running away. It was embarrassing, but he couldn’t find it in him to care.

“-so well Steve, you were so good for me. Amazing-”

“I’m not a child, you know. I don’t need to hear that,” he reminded Bucky.

Hand stuttering, Bucky quickly recovered and said quietly, “no, you’re not. But it can’t hurt to hear it either.”

Honestly, it didn’t. It made him feel recognised, everything he was experiencing and enduring was reality, and despite having the advantage of the serum, him being able to handle it was impressive.

“You’re right. It can’t,” he affirmed. Clearing his throat, he pulled himself back, feeling rather emotional over such a miniscule thing, and blinked rapidly. Bucky watched him do so, trekking the glistening over his iris and not commenting on it, merely acknowledging its existence. “I can do the rest now. Thanks Buck.”

Bucky searched his eyes. “Do you want to?”

He gulped. Of course not. “Yes.”

“Why are you lying?”

“Why ask questions when you know the answer?” he retorted.

Bucky didn’t respond, instead fingers gravitated to his shirt whilst they maintained eye contact. He didn’t initiate anything, not until Steve leaned forward and let his fingers dance around the fabric but nothing more. Being of some kind of use was impossible.

The shirt was pulled off quickly and the cold air nipped at Steve’s skin, sending shivers down his spine as he trembled. It wasn’t just from the cold. He knew how terrible his abdomen was, the pain even worse, and having to treat that was causing him great anxiety. Convulsions as powerful as earthquakes rocked him.

“You need to see a doctor Steve,” Bucky commented, voice thick. “That looks bad.”

“No. No doctor I just… there’s a cream in there somewhere, gotta put some of that on this and wrap it in a- in a gauze. It’ll heal,” he said quickly, like he was ripping off a band aid.

“Steve you-”

“If you won’t do it I’ll do it myself.” Hospitals were too dangerous, Bucky had to understand that. They weren’t safe for people like him.

“Okay, okay,” he placated and raised his hands. “I’ll do it, stop being so impatient.”

“Well, hurry up grandpa I’m getting old over here.” Humour wouldn’t solve his problems.

He closed his eyes this time, refusing to watch it occur, and braced himself. Bucky’s fingers were warm, a pleasant surprise for him, but the cream when it grazed the blemished skin was not and he flinched. A full body retreat to escape it but his exposef back connected with the toilet reminding him there was no refuge, he had to feel it.

Mouth opening, and teeth gritted together, a hiss shot through the gaps. It hurt. It hurt fucking bad. _You can handle it_ , he willed himself to believe. Deal with it. It’s almost over.

Bucky made an apologetic sound but thankfully didn’t speak, opting for silence. It was humiliating to be seen so weak without purpose or resolve, even if it only was Bucky, and he couldn’t bear to hear consolation when he didn’t need it. All he needed was a barrier that hid him away as he healed. There was no veil for him to cower behind and no sanctuary remaining on earth.

As Bucky spread the cream, evidently going as fast as he could whilst maintaining the soft touch, it was agonising the hurt that coursed through Steve. It was as though he was experiencing thaw after years of trapped in ice, a blast of hot air engulfing him resulting in painful blisters. It was indescribable, the sheer torture, and nothing could replicate how he felt.

But he endured it- _dealt_ it, reacting spontaneously and often without thinking of his action, expelling the energy however he could, even if it meant trapping the blood flow in his fingers or tugging at his growing strands of hair. Bucky was quick to intervene when he did that.

Finally, a time came where it was over, and all Bucky had to do was bandage the area, Steve’s patience having been rewarded. Encouraging Steve to rest his upper body on his shoulder, Bucky enclosed his arms around him and skilfully wrapped the gauze, not too tight and not too loose. Breathing heavy and in exhaustion, Steve let him do it without objection. He had no strength in his limbs anymore.

He wanted to get into the bed and lay there for eternity, the world passing him by.

Bucky soothed the tense muscles in his back, unbothered that he was getting Steve’s blood onto him and stroked the bare skin, just letting them be once more. Maybe it was the fatigue like he suspected, or perhaps it was Bucky, but dressed in nothing but his underwear and stinking of his own blood whilst he hunched onto the other man, Steve felt peace.

It was rare for him to experience that when he wasn’t in the company of his friends (Sam and Natasha), but even then, that wasn’t comparable to this instance. Steve felt protected, he felt loved to the touch, and for some inexplicable reason it made him emotional. Made his eyes water and his jaw tremble as he bit back the sob.

Hand pausing, Bucky cautiously said, “I can stop if you want.”

Decisively, Steve shook his head. He wanted the soft touch- needed it. _Don’t stop_.

The tender fingers resumed and using his knuckles, Bucky began to knead the muscles and urge them to relax, something Steve wasn’t sure they could anymore. God, he needed this so bad.

For a brief second, he was incredibly glad for the fact that Bucky’s stealth suit was waterproof and too dense for him to feel something as small as tear, because as he pulled him closer, Bucky on his knees and tall enough for Steve nestle into, the dam containing his conflicting emotions broke free and all he could do was cry silently. Let the drops propel from his eyes and land mutely on the black shirt.

With the injuries, the mental stress which had accumulated over the years, the sheer reality he had to engage with- he couldn’t assemble the broken pieces which he once was. Chipped edges and discolouration altered their formation and appearance and he wasn’t sure anymore if that was him. Who was Steve Rogers?

He didn’t know anymore.

“What’s wrong, my love?” Bucky murmured, sustaining the bubble in which they hid.

“‘My love’? That’s a new one,” Steve tried to joke, voice thick and exposing what he was left to reveal. An embarrassingly loud sniffle followed.

“There’s only so many biographies I can read before I need a change.”

“Romance?” Steve rested his face sideways on Bucky’s shoulder, staring the tiles with streaks of blood, tear drops staining the white canvas.

“Something like that.”

In the silence, more of his tears streamed and his head felt cloudy, like there was too much stuffed within it and no release for the toxicity to be removed. More prominently, his leg and abdomen burned- ached as though they were still under attack and all he could do was feel it, throat too crammed for him to swallow anything.

He was exhausted. Tired. Fatigued. No amount of sleep could cure it.

“You didn’t answer me,” Bucky pointed out, not harshly but as an option. Steve could say if he wanted to.

He chuckled, a heavy sound weighted with his pain. “Never did have a good memory.”

“It was good enough for me.” Bucky said it in a low voice.

His breath was caught in his throat. “I always was.”

Bucky complained, he shouted, and he loved dearly; in the end Steve was good enough for him regardless.

“Still are. Don’t know much about us back then, but I want to know everything about us now.”

Steve’s grip tightened noticeably. “I’m just..tired, Bucky. Nothing a good night's sleep can’t fix.”

Another blatant lie, something he couldn’t stop himself from saying. Consolingly, Bucky was firmer in massaging his back. “These knots say otherwise.”

Steve knew that, could feel the stress that his body wanted him to address and resolve but he didn’t have the time or resources for it. Like Philips told him back in the war, he had to focus on the now first and himself later. There was a fight that had to be won, damned be the costs. Even when the costs were mental stability.

But he had the greatest advantage- _the serum_ , longer endurance. He was fine. He could wait. The knots had to wait. He would deal with it when he could, but until then? They didn’t exist.

“I can’t let myself breakdown when there’s nothing to build me back up immediately afterwards.” There was a war raging in Steve’s mind and he was losing terribly.

There was no medicine for Morita, or Dum Dum, or any Commando, and there sure in hell wasn’t one for him. He had to be strong- Jesus the serum had to mean something right now, more than ever he needed it.

“I’m here,” Bucky promised, but it wasn’t enough.

He couldn’t spill the horrors in his mind, the words couldn’t be showcased even to Bucky. _“Keep your feelings in check boys, we don’t need you to cry when we got millions of people doing that already. Man up and fight, now is not the time.”_ It was never the time.

“You can’t patch me up, Buck. No one can.”

Sam encouraged him profusely to talk, say something about the pain that he harboured and let develop from a pond into an ocean. But he couldn’t. It was his battle alone and this time, he wasn’t too sure who would conquer within him.

“I can try,” he continued.

Steve shook his head, eyes glazing over as he lost the concentration he was struggling to preserve. Not even his blood could capture his attention. “Can’t fight my fight for me. It’s something I gotta do alone.”

“But you’re not alone,” Bucky vowed. “I’m-” he paused, clearly ambivalent on how to proceed. Steve didn’t blame him, there was too much pressure in that moment for it to be used. “I’m here. You know that, right?”

Steve didn't reply. Bucky had been gone for almost three years. Three years of no signal, no contact or interaction of any sort. He wasn’t there, and Steve couldn’t ask him to be either. It was his mess and he had to clean it by himself.

Despite everything, he wasn’t upset or angry at Bucky’s decision to stay away, in fact he respected it. Found it comforting that Bucky chose to do that for himself because he needed or wanted to, it was him becoming independent again, how could Steve hate him for that? Well, he couldn’t.

He didn’t owe Steve anything.

“I just want to sleep,” Steve answered eventually, arms itching to curl under Bucky's armpits to hold onto him, press their bodies together indefinitely. His voice was quiet, would have been imperceptible had the rain not alleviated in that second.

“Bed?” Bucky asked, _still_ on his knees whilst holding up the infinite mass of Steve.

He nodded, words failing him once more, and forced his mind to take responsibility for his drained limbs. As though there was fishing line reeling him, he sat upright and grimaced when it pulled at his repairing abdomen. Slowly, he wiped the wetness congregated on his face, aware of the piercing eyes examining him, and sighed, bracing for what was to come.

Mouth sealed, Bucky didn’t comment, patient as always and stood up to proffer a hand (the flesh one) as Steve gathered himself. Withholding a groan at the piercing exhaustion, Steve pushed aside his feelings and accepted it, refusing to overthink this one thing. Touch, however he could have it, was more important than any embarrassment, it could wait.

Slowly, Bucky escorted him to the bed, turning the light off in the bathroom and like him, ignoring the bloody mess staining the countertops and sink. The room was as dark as it could be, and the bed further than he thought. Panting as though he had run a marathon, Steve pushed aside the feelings of inadequacy and self-loathing. They had plenty of time to taunt him.

Eventually, he reached the bed and with Bucky’s careful fingers guiding him and manipulating the covers, he slipped under the blanket, shivering at the coldness as it draped him. Bucky paused at the head of the bed, staring at him. Hoping his eyes conveyed what words couldn’t, Steve waited for his next course of action, hoping it was to slip into the sheets beside him.

“Mind if I stay? Need to take a nap,” Bucky asked, as though he had to. As though Steve wouldn’t let him.

Without a word, he pulled the covers behind him (aggravating his wounds) and revealed the empty space waiting to be filled. Smiling softly, Bucky chuckled, a beautiful sound.

“Never was good at subtle.” he said, walking around to the side Steve offered. “But then again, neither was I.”

Wordlessly, he slipped into the cocoon and pressed against Steve, proffering body heat as it transmitted off him like a constant tsunami. Unashamed (well, partially), Steve turned to face him, grunting as it stretched the battered skin and breathed, eyes connecting in the dark. Questions swirled in Bucky’s iris, but he didn’t answer them.

Leaving some space between them, he threw his arm around Bucky’s waist and got as close as he could whilst leaving the other the choice to toss him aside if he wished. He wasn’t trapped, Steve needed him to know that even if the words wouldn’t spill from his mouth.

Smiling, almost sadly, Bucky closed the gap whilst mindful of Steve’s body healing, and inexplicably requested, “can I kiss you?”

Disgusted at the fact that he would willingly let Bucky touch him when he was so close to exploding and tainting him, Steve closed his eyes and nodded, so, so selfish. Any way he could have him, he would. He couldn’t sacrifice this.

Chapped lips touched his forehead, puckered together as they lightly pressed against the skin. It lasted no more than five seconds- if that, but it was marvellous, something he wish he could have again and again. But he couldn’t, so he had reign in his uncontrollable feelings before he did something stupid. Bucky deserved better.

“Go to sleep,” Bucky mumbled, breath fanning Steve’s face. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

That, he seriously doubted, but the security felt in the room at that moment was undeniable. Perhaps Bucky would be there and defy the thoughts that Steve couldn't help but feed, maybe he wouldn’t, with the tiredness tugging his eyelids shut and refusing to let him stay conscious for much longer it didn’t matter.

He was here now, and that was all that did.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr:  bountifulsilences   
> twitter:  AwestruckBuck 


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